The Lovesong of Prof Henry Higgins
by vcatrashfiend
Summary: Missing wedding night scene from "A Better Man". Henry experiences anxiety when faced with his first night with Eliza.


The Lovesong of Prof. Henry Higgins: "A Better Man" vignette

Summary: Missing wedding night scene from "A Better Man". Henry experiences anxiety when faced with his first night with Eliza.

Rating: A tasteful(ish) "T"

Disclaimer: Well, they are certainly not my characters and I have no plans of making money off of them.

Author's Note: Happy New Year!

* * *

Henry must have paced Minnewater Park for a full two hours before finally retreating to the Hotel Academie where his wife awaited. Eliza had demurred when he requested a stroll, citing exhaustion as her reasoning. The journey to Bruges had been a long one, and Henry supposed that he was grateful for the few hours of peace; after all, she was now to be always at his side, and solitude was certain to become a rarity in his life.

Henry had resisted against the notion of a honeymoon trip until his mother reasoned with him. Eliza had not seen much beyond her London trappings, and a little holiday would be a very nice gesture indeed. He outright rejected the suggestion that they go to Paris. Romantic mecca or no, he found the city a total bore and crawling with insufferable bohemians. Venice made him shudder. He was not found of the Italian language, and he certainly did not want his wife to be wooed by some swarthy lothario. The Highlands were too rustic, and if there was one thing that made his skin crawl more than Italian, it was backwoods brogue and deep-fried everything. Bruges, while being guilty of having French speaking people, was by all accounts charming.

So, the decision was made, and the Higgins were off to Bruges. Clara took it upon herself to take Eliza's son Jack off to Paris to ease the sting of mother and child's first real separation. Eliza made Clara swear that they would stick to the usual tourist sites, and not venture into Montmartre under any circumstances. Henry's mother and Colonel Pickering opted to stay in London and enjoy their first taste of solitude in years.

Henry felt an overwhelming sense of dread as he walked down the hallway towards the suite he shared with Eliza. He paused in front of a gilded mirror and found that his pallor was chalky with the hint of a crimson blush burning at his neck and threatening to crawl upwards to engulf his face. His heart was beating a furious pattern against his chest, and for a moment he thought he was about to suffer a stroke.

_It would certainly excuse me from any expected duties this evening,_ he thought. His duty. Good Lord... Eliza was waiting for him. Waiting for...

Waiting for him to make love to her. His head swam at the notion as he stood motionless in front of the door to their room. It was not as if he thought the idea unpleasant. His wife was beautiful, young, fascinating. As he lifted his trembling hand to the doorknob he found himself imagining what she looked like at the moment. She had been tired, so her hair was certainly unbound and spread across the pillows. Rich chocolate against silken cream. Was she in her nightgown? Perhaps, the moon was now high in the night sky. He had overheard Eliza talking to Clara before the journey. The silly little chit had apparently purchased something obscene for Eliza to wear in the evening, and his wife had been mortified.

_"If you do not take it with you, I will be ever so clever and ransack your travelling trunk before you leave and replace all of your clothes with this nightgown and even more scandalous things," _The younger girl threatened. Eliza swore a bloody oath in her cockney dialect, and Henry had fled when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He did not know what exactly Clara had given to Eliza, but he was not such a dried up old man that his imagination could not conjure several pleasing images.

He wanted to make love to his wife. The idea was not repulsive, despite what one of his more crude minded contemporaries had accused him of. He loved her, and wanted to express his love in a physical way, as it was hard for him to verbalize such things. The crux of the matter was that he had not engaged in the act of lovemaking in a very long time. In fact, Eliza's son was physical proof that Eliza's experiences had been more recent than his own. Henry supposed that it was the universe's way of showing him what an unusual marital situation he was in by having Eliza turn all convention on it's head.

Henry's last experience with a woman still made him burn with shame. It was shortly after his mother had informed him of Eliza's elopement. Somehow, he managed to find himself in Paris after the news. He suspected that the amount of spirits he consumed had somehow magically transported him to his least favorite city on earth. He was arguing loudly with some snot-nosed student about Turgenev in a ramshackle cafe when the absinthe he accidentally accepted took his bizarre journey one step further and whisked him away to some well-furnished brothel.

Henry felt like he was watching himself from some place outside of his body, helpless to stop himself from giving the Madame a very specific outline of what he expected in one of her girls. Hair; Dark brown. Eyes; Dark brown. Complexion; Alabaster. Figure; Light and pleasing.

Mouche was the girl's name. Her jaw was a bit too strong and her nose far too roman in size and shape for delicacy. Her figure was more gaunt than light and pleasing, and her white complexion was achieved through powder that he could taste when his lips brushed her neck in an experimental caress. Her hair was rich, beautiful and that exact shade of brown that had unwittingly haunted him for months. She couldn't have been much older than nineteen, but he paid for her, and subsequently lost himself within the pleasures of his purchase.

Bedding Mouche did absolutely nothing to soothe the sting of Eliza's abandonment. There were several instances where his stomach felt dangerously queasy, owing to the fact that the girl's perfume was absolutely cloying and wretched, and the amount of spirits he had been consuming was copious. Henry fled the brothel soon after, and sought refuge in a hotel until he could safely return home. He swore to never return to Paris.

"Henry, you have been standing at the door for ages; Have you lost the key?" Eliza's sweet, imploring voice snapped him from his reverie. His hand was closed around the doorknob, clutching it so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He pushed the door open in response and stepped inside.

"Husband."

Somehow he found his voice. "Wife."

Her hair was unbound, as he imagined. Henry thanked the gods that Clara had not convinced Eliza to succumb to the dictates of fashion and chop off her glorious curls and waves. She stood in front of the large, opulent bed, wrapped in the duvet cover, feet bare, and face blazing red. She was as nervous as he was.

"Have you caught a chill, my insect?" He inquired with a teasing grin.

"No, but it would be quite easy in this nightgown," she replied. Boldly, she dropped her feather-down armor to the floor and his brain momentarily short-circuited. Her ivory legs were exposed to mid-calf in the scanty peach teddy. It was a heady confection of silk with lace flowers embroidered at the hem and plunging neckline, held up by tiny shoulder straps. She shivered under his intense scrutiny, crossing her deliciously bared arms.

"I sh-shall write to Clara at once, and give her my most heartfelt th-thanks," Henry stammered, trying with all of his might to keep the mood light.

"How did you know Clara gave this to me?" Eliza asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Ah, caught.

"Mother and Pickering would have a fit of apoplexy if they ever knew such a garment existed," he explained quickly.

Eliza gave him a half-smile, unconvinced, but unwilling to pry any further. "I am glad it meets your approval."

They stood in silence, neither making a move to cross the five feet of distance that separated them.

"Now I am beginning to feel a chill," Eliza finally spoke. When Henry did not respond, she bent over and picked up the duvet cover, intent on covering herself once more. "I must look very silly to-" She was cut off as Henry closed the distance, yanked the cover from her hands, threw it to the floor and poured nearly a decade of unresolved longing into a dizzyingly passionate kiss. His hands cupped her face to deepen the kiss, and she wrapped her arms tightly about his waist, pulling his body flush against her own. She moaned into his mouth when she felt the hard evidence of his approval pressing against her belly.

Somehow they found themselves on the bed, their caresses increasing in boldness, Eliza's once admired peach teddy thrown into a careless heap on the floor. All thoughts of Henry's misadventure was erased from his head as he learned the difference between a drunken, ill-advised rut and making love. The difference between soothing the needs of the body, and getting exactly what one's soul needed to survive.

Somewhere in the dizzying, euphoric time that passed between them, he uttered three words that brought about Eliza's complete and utter surrender, followed shortly by his own. They parted breathlessly.

"Good God, woman."

Eliza switched positions from her back to her side, facing Henry with her face propped against her hand, she was smiling radiantly.

"No bloody oaths on our wedding night, Husband," she scolded, teasingly.

Henry chuckled. "I won't have you browbeat me about my habits, even if you are my wife."

Eliza cozied up at Henry's side in response, and he buried his head in her dark hair. He was utterly content for the moment, the sort of contentment that came with getting exactly what one wanted.


End file.
